Painting Dreams
by Scribbler
Summary: Being a Kaiba is stressful. To help cope, Mokuba tries hobbies other than Duel Monsters. The one that sticks is art. His old love of crayoning develops as a teen, until he starts dreaming of a small boy in ancient Egypt and a girl with white hair ...


**Disclaimer:** Artistically not mine.

**A/N:** I set a challenge on LiveJournal: if you would provide me with a piece of fanart, I would write a short ficlet for/based on it. Nuitsongeur asked for something based on yiuokami (dot) deviantart (dot) com (slash) gallery (slash) 32568146 (hash slash) d4g65u7. Incidentally, this one turned out a LOT different than I first imagined it would when I saw the artwork, and also a lot longer.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Painting Dreams<strong>_

© Scribbler, January 2012.

* * *

><p>'<em>Painting is just another way of keeping a diary.'<em> – Pablo Picasso

* * *

><p>Seto never expected Mokuba to be just like him. Actually, everything he had done had been to ensure Mokuba was <em>better<em> than him. Mokuba was the potential he no longer had. If Seto had to crush a few spirits, boardrooms, executives, bank accounts, and, yes, other people's futures to make sure his little brother got the chances he had sacrificed to get them out of that orphanage, then that was just the way things were.

Even so, the art surprised him.

Mokuba was a brilliant strategist. He had a methodical mind that, even as a kid, had marked him out as a brilliant organiser. His track record was spectacular: by age fourteen he had helped coordinate several of the biggest Duel Monsters events in the world, had seen to the daily running of Kaiba Land, had overseen initiatives in virtual reality technology that made shareholders salivate at the potential applications, and had also graduated at the top of his class in school every single year. He was a child prodigy. Everyone said so – even when they didn't think Seto was listening and weren't looking for a raise, promotion or extra paid vacation.

By contrast, Seto had been forced to repeat two separate years of high school because of all the days he had missed. He had been running an international corporation, wiping the floor with the entire international duelling circuit and generally being everything the name 'Seto Kaiba' embraced, but that wasn't enough for the Japanese authorities. He didn't care. As long as Mokuba was succeeding, and Kaiba Corp was on top, what use did _he_ have for school? He was worth ten times what those stupid teachers would earn in a lifetime. Him, in a remedial math class? It was sickening.

Mokuba was the thing. Everything Seto ever did was for Mokuba.

So when, on his fifteenth birthday, Mokuba asked for a room in the mansion to be set aside as an art studio, Seto agreed but was surprised. Mokuba was a planner, not a creator. He could calculate huge numbers in his head and soothe a rabid boardroom like pulling thorns from lions' paws. Yet he never seemed happier than when he had paint spatters on his clothes and his hair smelled of turpentine. For once, Seto couldn't micromanage his brother's time and Mokuba didn't ask him to.

"Why?" Seto asked.

"Why what?"

"Why art?"

"Why not art?" Mokuba laughed. "Big Brother, I love you, but, no offence, you're _Seto Kaiba._"

"I don't understand."

"_Y_ou're so successful that nothing I do in Kaiba Corp will ever be able to compare with you."

"That's not true –"

"Yes it is," Mokuba said gently, as if trying to _reassure_ him. Him! "I work hard and I do what I can for the company, but it's … it's hard."

"You don't like working for Kaiba Corp?"

"It's not that I don't like it! I'm just not naturally talented at it. I have to work extra hard to keep up with you because you _are_ talented and I want you to be proud of me."

"I have always been proud of you, Mokuba."

Mokuba toed the carpet and mumbled, "Yeah, I know. It's just … y'know … this is something I'm good at. And I never expected to be. I got into it at school by accident when they needed help painting the backdrop in the drama production. And, well, I like it." This last statement was said like an apology. "For a while, at least, this is something that's just me."

Seto had stared at him for a long moment. He was looking at a fifteen year old, but he was seeing a little boy who had painstakingly crayoned a Blue Eyes White Dragon to give his brother hope when Gozaburo Kaiba was at his most sadistic. Without another word, Seto picked up the phone and ordered the best art supplies money could buy. Mokuba was never supposed to be in his shadow like that. Ever. Seto would protect his little brother – to the death if necessary – but he never wanted Mokuba to feel like he had to compete.

So he didn't pry when Mokuba sequestered himself away. He never asked to look at anything Mokuba wasn't prepared to show him. He was curious, but this was Mokuba's hobby. He had a right to something of his own, away from the name 'Kaiba' and all its associations.

Seto did, however, wonder what was going on when he woke one night to hear someone stumbling through the hallway outside his room.

More often than not, Seto stayed late at the office and came home at some ridiculous hour. The night staff and security knew to keep away when he finally did retire for the night. He went to see what the disturbance was and saw Mokuba rounding the corner from the fire staircase. He was wearing his pyjamas, which was odd in itself, since they only had to ring for glasses of water or whatnot, not fetch them themselves. Mokuba had chosen to use the stairs rather than the elevator, presumable so he wouldn't wake anyone. Odder still was what Seto found on the floor: the rag Mokuba used to cover his hair when he painted.

Mokuba said nothing about it in the morning, but the next night, after retiring late and assuming that Mokuba was already asleep in his room, Seto was once again woken by the sound of his brother, half-blind with tiredness, staggering back to bed.

Seto was no stranger to pulling all-nighters, but this was odd behaviour for Mokuba, who general fell asleep before midnight, even if he wasn't in bed – which had made for some interesting journeys home from the office and several unwanted 'cute' shots by paparazzi of bodyguards carrying his sleeping form up to the house.

On the third night Seto busied himself in his room instead of staying late at the office. He had a policy of never bringing company paperwork home, but spent the time organising his deck until he heard the tell-tale creak and pad of Mokuba leaving his room and hustling down the hall. Seto waited long enough for him to get to the staircase and then followed. Something about this felt off. He couldn't explain it, but the feeling troubled him.

Sure enough, Mokuba headed straight for his studio. Seto watched the closed door like a vampire disallowed entry. Nothing moved. He considered knocking, but that violated all the promises he had made to himself. Plus, Mokuba obviously hadn't wanted him to know about these night-time excursions, or hadn't thought them important enough to tell him what he was up to. Mokuba was fifteen now. What had Seto been doing at fifteen? He had already watched two fathers and a mother die and been running Kaiba Corp long enough for people to be scared of him.

The door opened unexpectedly. Mokuba hurried out, muttering censoriously to himself, "How could I leave it behind? So stupid. _Stupid_." He was so involved with self-recriminations that he didn't even see Seto skulking in the shadows.

He headed back upstairs, retuning a few minutes later with a battered sketchbook. He flipped through the pages as he walked. When he neared the studio he raised his gaze and froze.

Finally spotted, Seto stepped out of the gloom. "While I appreciate your dedication to your artwork," he deadpanned, "you have school tomorrow." Irony, thy name was Seto Kaiba. Or was that hypocrisy?

Mokuba's mouth flapped. "Uh … uh …"

"Can this really not wait until morning?"

After a moment, and very slowly, Mokuba shook his head. "No. Actually, it really can't."

Seto narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"It … it just can't, Big Brother. You have to trust me on this. I … ah …" Mokuba seemed embarrassed.

Seto didn't let up. "You what?"

Mokuba sighed. "It sounds stupid when I say it out loud."

"Try me."

"I'm painting my dreams."

Seto didn't want to agree that it did sound stupid. He wondered whether this was one of those lines that divided people like him from creative types. He stared over it into a country where he didn't speak the language and knew none of the customs. "And you can't wait until a reasonable hour?"

"No, I have to do it when they're fresh." Mokuba held up the sketchbook. "I've roughed them out in here – I always do when I first wake up – but in there …" He gestured at the studio door. "The images fade in daylight."

Seto resisted the urge to snort. "Very well," he said instead. "But if you cannot keep up with your studies, we will need to rethink how we approach your education."

"Home tuition?" Mokuba asked, aghast. They both had terrible memories of how Gozaburo had tortured Seto with a venomous tutor while leaving Mokuba to rot, untaught and unimportant. Mokuba had spent so much of his early childhood being told he was worthless, and tolerated only if he stayed out of sight and understood just how worthless he was compared with his brother. It still made Seto's blood boil.

"No," he replied. "But something." Those days had been hard, but they were one of the reasons he hadn't suffered too badly from missing lots of school. Everything they taught in public establishments was what he already knew. Did regular teenagers really find that sort of thing difficult? Then again, it was remedial maths. "You _will_ go to university someday, Mokuba," he said severely, using the words to clear his own head.

"I know." Mokuba dropped his gaze. He never argued about that. It was an unwritten agreement: Seto would stay and take care of the company while Mokuba went on to higher education and all the other opportunities it would open up. He would not be hemmed in forever by the Kaiba name or their troubled past.

"Good." Seto stepped around him.

"You'll be the first one I show it to, Big Brother," Mokuba called after him. "Nobody else!"

"Mmm," Seto replied noncommittally.

* * *

><p>Mokuba's work ethic was impressive. Some might even call it obsessive. Even so, he kept up his end of the bargain and maintained his studies. Seto arranged for a maid to be employed specifically to take care of his little brother during the night. Usually she stood idly by on a chair outside the studio door, but jumped to her feet the moment Mokuba cracked it open to ask for something. Mokuba apparently took his promise very seriously: Seto would be the first to see his work and nobody else was allowed to view it in the meantime.<p>

Seto would have been lying if he said he didn't feel a frission of pride. Mokuba was so unlike him. He was a kind and giving soul. He opened himself up totally to people, leaving nothing out. It had gained him many friends, but Seto couldn't follow his example. To Seto, that kind of openness was just an invitation for the world to hurt you. If you kept nothing of yourself secret, people had power over you, and he had vowed a long time ago never to be helpless again.

The unveiling came a few weeks later. Seto was drinking coffee at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looked over the rim of his mug when Mokuba burst into the room, still in his paint-splashed pyjamas, his face shining with elation.

"It's finished!"

The night maid trailed behind him. She had a red tartan blanket and a pair of slippers in her hands. "Mr. Mokuba, please, you'll catch your death –"

"Seto, it's finished!" Too exciting to hear her, Mokuba put his palms flat on the table top and leaned forward. "You can to come see it."

Seto calmly put down his mug and looked pointedly at Mokuba's bare feet. Finally getting the message, Mokuba accepted the slippers but not the blanket. Instead he tugged at his brother's arm like he used to when they were both much younger.

"C'mon," he insisted. "You can drink coffee anytime."

Seto thought about calling attention to the time. It was Saturday, but that meant nothing. The word 'weekend' was a stand-in for 'cram-school and the office'.

"Big Brother!"

Seto rose to his feet, still calmly, and followed Mokuba to his studio. In contrast, Mokuba danced around him like a puppy that had consumed an entire bag of Extra Sugary Doggy Chocs.

The interior of Mokuba's workspace was messy. Actually, it looked like someone had detonated a paint-bomb in an origami factory, dumped the contents of an art store on top and sprinkled the leftover confetti from some British royal wedding over what was left. It was yet more indication of how he and Mokuba were different. Seto's office was rigid and austere. He work pristine white suits to work and prided himself on not getting even his sleeves dirty as he rested them against his laptop. He indulged in spectacle when it came to Duel Monsters exactly because he didn't allow it into any other aspect of his life.

There were half-finished canvases everywhere. Some bore only a few splodges, some had roughed-out pencil and charcoal figures, while others had been turned to face the wall to conceal what they held. It was easy to see which one Mokuba had brought him to see. It stood in pride of place in the middle of the studio, covered in a sheet. The canvas was bigger than Seto had imagined. Even he had to look up to see the top.

"Ready?" Mokuba asked excitedly.

Seto just nodded, arms folded.

Mokuba tugged on one corner and the sheet came away like spider-web. Underneath was a life-size portrait of two people, a man and a woman, each pale-haired but with vastly different skin tones. They sat at what looked like a table made of sand and studded with tiny pyramids. Water cascaded from the woman's hand to run between the pyramids and over the side of the table. The effect was like that of a medieval portrait from a time when people thought the world was flat and you could sail right off the edge.

Contrarily, the man's hands were both clenched into fists and held away from the table, as if he could not bear to touch it. A white snake curled around his wrist like a pet, but he held the back of its neck more like a loaded weapon he was ready to use on the woman. His disapproving expression matched this idea quite well. Her expression, on the other hand, was calm to the point of beatific. In her other hand she held a quill-feather, as if she had taken to heart the lesson 'the pen is mightier than the sword'. Wisps of hair framed her face. One had even caught in the corner of her mouth, as if stuck with a tiny piece of saliva. The realism was breath-taking. If Seto hadn't been able to make out the brush strokes, he would have said it was a photograph.

Circling around the pair were two gigantic reptiles: a baleful white snake and the unmistakable head and neck of a Blue Eyes White Dragon. The entire painting looked highly symbolic and was beautifully rendered. Mokuba's talent shone through it like never before. The details were painstaking. He had even painted bricks on the tiny pyramids and flashing hints of fish in the sliver of water. A suggestion of pink in the woman's face and arms indicated sunburn on delicate skin that had not properly healed, while the livid scar crisscrossing the man's cheek looked as painful as any crime scene photo of bar fight after being glassed.

Seto stared. He kept his face impassive only because if he let any emotion into it, the cracks splintering his memory might widen and the things he had fenced off might come crashing through. He had gotten past his experiences in Egypt. What he couldn't reason away he had simply ignored and forced himself to forget. What had happened out there was too outside reality to be acceptable.

Mokuba had not even been there; and Seto had never shared his hallucinations. He had to think of them as hallucinations. Otherwise everything Yuugi Mutou and his band of merry idiots had said about magic and the spirit world was, in actual fact, true – and that was something Seto could never agree to. He had invested too much in his own world view to believe in someone else's now. If what he had believed about that was wrong, what else was? There were too many possibilities for self-doubt down that road for him to ever travel it willingly.

Yet the woman's face was achingly familiar. He couldn't deny that he recognised her, although the last time he saw her eyes they had been closed in death and her chest stained with blood. He had watched as someone who looked like him, but was not him, had cradled her in his arms and sobbed like a baby over the father who had betrayed him in the name of ambition and the most twisted kind of love.

"Big Brother?" Mokuba said hesitantly.

Seto realised he hadn't spoken or moved in several minutes. He cleared his throat. "It … shows a lot of talent," he said lamely. "And … technical detail."

Mokuba looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for some other reaction. When none came his expression switched to badly concealed disappointed. "Thank you."

"You've worked very hard." Seto tried to claw back some ground, but it wasn't enough. He was too discomfited. The woman and man were both too familiar, though for wildly different reasons. He had never learned the man's true name, but the resemblance to Ryou Bakura was uncanny, even with the tanned skin and scar. Seto wasn't used to losing his composure this way. It didn't sit well. He felt blindsided and the risk of resentment following that was too close. He couldn't allow himself to resent Mokuba when his little brother couldn't have known what he had done.

"Seto?" Mokuba followed him to the door. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Seto said shortly, his steps quick.

"Something is –"

"I said nothing!"

Mokuba fell back, surprised.

Seto drew a soothing breath. "I have work to do," he said. He pushed through the doors without looking back and had to make a conscious effort to walk at a steady pace down the corridor.

He wasn't insane. This was just random chance and coincidence.

And denial. Lots and lots of denial.

But he was Seto Kaiba, so what else was new?

* * *

><p>Mokuba watched his brother leave with a combination of worry and confusion. He rarely understood how or why Seto's moods turned so quickly these days. Ever since he had come back from Egypt – and he hadn't truly explained how and why he had even taken that trip in the first place – Seto had been even more cantankerous than usual and prone to bouts of introspection beyond even his deep history. Seto had been something of an introvert ever since he took on the Kaiba name, despite the massive coattails and dramatic duelling style. Nobody but Mokuba seemed to understand that emotionally, Seto played his cards so close to his chest they had passed through his ribcage and acted like a shield around his heart. Everyone else just saw the cold businessman and ruthlessly competitive duellist. Sometimes Mokuba felt like, if he wasn't there to see what lay beneath, it might disappear altogether.<p>

"Is he … all right?" the maid asked hesitantly.

Mokuba looked back at his painting, remembering the bizarre dreams that had led to its creation. He had honestly felt like he was a small child running through the outskirts of Egyptian village. He had spent nights reliving boring daily tasks that was fascinating in their strangeness. Some of the canvases turned to the wall depicted those tasks, and his sketchbook was filled with disembodied hands using tools he had no names for.

His dreams had been wonderful, until the one where he trod on something that bit him and made his entire leg burn. That dream had left him with a bittersweet aftertaste when he opened his eyes and remembered a little boy who looked like a younger version of Seto struggling to carry him home, where their mother cried over him, before Mokuba soared above them like a bird and watched his own body go still and cold. The images had been so clear that painting them didn't felt like work, although it had taken weeks before he settled on this composite to represent the sheer _feeling_ of all he had witnessed.

The pale woman seemed to stare kindly down at him, reassuring him even though she was just an image he had created on canvas. Mokuba had been so sure Seto would be pleased. Instead, he seemed to have offended his brother somehow.

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "I really don't know."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Fin.<strong>_

* * *

><p>.<p> 


End file.
